The absent other

Ten years ago, painter Salima Hashmi exhibited her work in Delhi. As the daughter of Faiz Ahmed Faiz she’s a huge celebrity in Lahore, as is barrister Javed Iqbal, son of Allama Iqbal. Hashmi spoke wistfully then of how she loved listening to Kishori Amonkar but had to subsist on tapes, since the chance of catching a live concert was one in a zillion. Today the Lahoris make do with a young stud, allegedly of the Patiala gharana, who can’t sing straight unless it’s a Punjabi sufi lyric or an Urdu ghazal with the most awful filmi harmonium and a tabla spitting like a popcorn machine. (Later there are shamed murmurs: “Hindustaniyon ke saamne aisa kaisa pesh kiya?).

Hashmi, her equally famous husband Shoaib, Javed Iqbal, leading Pakistani poet Ahmed Faraz, senior (brilliant) writer Intezar Hussain, the powerful, uncompromising Zaheda Hina, whose dearest wish is to see ‘Patanwa’ (Patna), her home turf: all tune in seriously into the conference, while activist-poet Kishwar Naheed, the organizing dynamo on the Pakistani side (her counterpart here is Ajeet Cour) holds the gathering on a tight leash.

‘‘Ajeet wanted an easier schedule. But I know how hungry we are in Pakistan for serious discussion on literature and heritage’’, says Naheed, which is amply proved by the headcount as well as the tremendous coverage in the Pakistani media, especially the SAARC Writers’ call to write common history books that teach both sides the shared, factual truth.

Intezar Hussain stuns younger Pakistani writers by invoking the common creative tradition of the subcontinent, be it the Kathasaritsagar or Malik Mohammed Jaisi’s Padmavat, now fragmented forever. There are Pakistani sighs when eminent Hindi writer Namwar Singh points out the deep syncretism: ‘‘Goswami Tulsidas called Ram ‘Gharib Nawaz’ not ‘Deenbandhu’ ’’.

Leading from here, it is in the interstices of the conference that the Missing Other seems to teasingly play between the pillars and arches of the Pakistani mind. A stray reference to Varanasi leads to a quote by an Indian delegate from satirical poet Bedhab Benarasi: ‘‘Bedhab kabhon na chhodiyon aisi Kashi dham/Marne par Ganga mile jeete langda aam’’ (Bedhab, never leave this Kashi, where dying, you get the Ganga, and living, the langda mango). ‘‘Bibi, phir se kaho. Hum likh lenge, drama mein use karenge,’’ says a Pakistani. (Please repeat that, I’ll use it in a play). Another time an Indian hums Meera Bai: ‘‘Pag ghunghroo baandh Meera naachi re’’. Sure enough, ‘‘Bibi, phir se kaho.’’ Yet again, from Kabir: ‘‘Haman hai ishq mastana, haman ko hoshiari kya’’. ‘‘Bibi…’’

Meanwhile, Neelam Mansingh Choudhury’s Kitchen Katha is wildly applauded at the Alhamra as is every Indian play and re-runs eagerly demanded. Several women writers from Pakistan mourn the lack of opportunity to watch/learn classical dance.

After this long and particularly hostile gap in relations, the Other seems to have gone truly missing. For the most heart-rending encounter is on the street with a young boy, perhaps in his early twenties. Imran, for that is his name, comes up with a polite but resolute greeting as if he absolutely has to say this: ‘‘Please ask the Indian government to open a cultural centre in Lahore. Please tell them it is very urgent. Bollywood bahut milta hai. Baki itna sara jo hai, hamein woh sab chahiye.’’